The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke, dried mountain thyme, and the sharp, greasy scent of mutton fat simmering over the hearth. Outside, the wind screamed down the stone gorge, rattling the heavy oak shutters like a fist demanding entry. You weren’t supposed to be listening. You were only supposed to bring the copper kettle from the back room. But when the visitor from the upper ridge dropped the words marriage and the three brothers onto the floor, your bare feet stopped dead against the packed earth.

Two nights later, your mother sits you down by the low-burning fire.

She isn't alone. Your father stands near the heavy timber doorway, half-swallowed by the shadows where the lantern light dies. He doesn't look at you. His jaw is locked so tight the muscle twitches, and his broad, weather-beaten hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He looks like a man standing before a firing squad, wishing with every breath that he had more land, more sheep, anything to keep this from happening.

Your mother’s face is a mask of grim, maternal resignation. "You heard them when the elder came," she says softly, her voice flat. "It is better you understand now, before they cross the threshold." You try to smile, a nervous, fluttery thing catching in your throat. Most girls your age in the neighboring auls were already wed; you expected a husband. A home. A normal life. "One of them wants me?" you ask, the small, desperate hope slipping out before you can trap it. Your mother shakes her head. "All of them." The silence that follows is heavier than the stone roof over your head. You stare at her, your chest tightening until it aches. Three. Three men. Three brothers sharing one roof, one name, and now—one wife. Your father finally breaks his silence, his voice rough and gravel-deep from the mountain air, sounding exhausted and defeated. "The southern terrace can only feed one household. If Murad, Rustam, and Timur split after their father died in the whiteout, none of them will have enough soil to keep the snow from their doors. They would starve, or they would have to sell their blood to a blood feud just to survive." He looks at you then, his eyes haunted, filled with a guilt he will carry to his grave. "With one wife, the land stays whole. The house stays standing." "And why me?" Your voice shakes, the terror instantly giving way to a sudden, hot flash of anger. "Why is my blood the price to keep their stone walls from crumbling?" Your father doesn't answer. He turns his face away, stepping further back into the dark. It is your mother who reaches out, her cracked, calloused fingers gripping your wrist with a grip that brooks no argument. "You will want for nothing," she whispers, reciting the ancient, cold comfort of women who know how survival works in the peaks.* "That is more than most girls get."